


We've come a long way (just a little more)

by OdetoKosmos



Series: We've come a long way (just a little more) [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Implications of LSW events, Implications of Season 1 and 2 events, M/M, Steps towards reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdetoKosmos/pseuds/OdetoKosmos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of them particularly want to go back, and both want to move on. This time, together, hand in hand, never letting go again. </p><p>Or, time could just stop now, and let this moment last forever. </p><p>An amalgamation of the past, present and the future, where both of them redefine themselves. Essentially a collection of ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here lies the difference (now you know)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, K fandom, you are the thing which is keeping me alive. 
> 
> Sometimes I forget that the 'established relation' between my OTP is not yet canon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had trusted his best friend to watch his back, always. Only he didn't know how hard it would be to watch his back, walking away, not meant to be back ever. 
> 
> Yata Misaki does not cry when Fushimi Saruhiko leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yata Misaki's POV

 

* * *

 

Yata Misaki learns what infinity  is, when his world shatters into infinite pieces as Fushimi Saruhiko drags his burning fingertips over the insignia. 

Anger replaces bewilderment faster than he can blink. 

 

* * *

 

Yata Misaki does not cry when Fushimi Saruhiko leaves. 

He doesn't need to shed his tears for a damned traitor anyway. As if he is going to let the world think he's weak -  _what're you talking about he's not weak never was, doesn't know what it feels like_ \- just because that traitor has betrayed hi- them.  He can still take over the world without that shitty monkey at his side... 

_always by his side_

(He is so hollow inside that he can't even think of summoning the tears to his eyes.). 

 

 

Instead he kicks at the pebbles on the street, slams the door of the bar shut despite Kusanagi-san's threats, kicks on the asphalt until his skateboard is moving so fast that everything is a blur. 

Everything _**is**_ a blur. 

And anger is the easiest to summon,  the most honest and loyal emotion he has ever felt. It's practiced almost,  it requires the least conscious thought. Anger does the work, cursing at him helps until he feels like a fifteen year old again, not a penny to his name, hiding his fears with a stout brashness until a cool hand on his shoulder reminds him that as long as they were together, they had nothing  to be afraid of, nothing to lose. 

 

* * *

 

The viscous bubbling in his heart makes him vaguely wonder about how the fire must  have felt on skin. 

 

The same fire that gave him his smiles, dries up his tears now. 

 

* * *

 

And  he's known it for a long time now, angers overwhelms, burns then extinguishes eventually. 

But around whom does he let  his guard down? 

 

So he goes on missions, fights in HOMRA's name, when the clansmen gather around in the bar, he laughs louder than the others, at even the smallest joke or does  not laugh at all and snaps instead. 

He's glad putting up the tough exterior takes up so much energy, because he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

 

* * *

  

Totsuka-san dies in his arms. With tears streaming down his face, Yata can hear the blonde man's voice, " Everything will be alright."  

A subconscious part of him remembers a cool pressure of a steady hand on his shoulder. 

Yata Misaki cries when Totsuka Tatara breathes his last. 

 

* * *

  

The members of HOMRA pay homage to their decreased king in the husky light of the approaching dusk. Yata Misaki chokes on his tears. 

He cries freely, because where does he belong now? 

That stupid subconscious answers by conjuring up a sepia-stained image of a double-bunk bed,  and the ghost of a smile forming upon pale, thin lips. 

That's why it's the  subconscious, that's why it is stupid. 

Yata Misaki cries when Suoh Mikoto is no more. 

 

His world has gone now, burned down, leaving _no blood no bone no ash._

 

* * *

  

Everyone has  left, Totsuka-san, Mikoto-san, even...even Saruhik-  Yata Misaki realizes he is not crying anymore. 

 

* * *

 

He is tired, exhausted . That's why he can't deal with another person leaving now. 

Just that it is not _just another person,_ it is the person with whom he had belonged for the first time, it is the person who belonged to him for the first time,  it is the person about to brace death upon his king's command. 

It is **Saruhiko**.

Yata Misaki is too tired to lie to himself, he's terrified, but he is still putting up the thoroughly practiced exterior. 

  

* * *

  

He knows it as soon as he has that limp body slumped on his right shoulder, as soon as he hears that soft, tired voice ( _so pained, so hurt_ ), that Saruhiko is tired too. 

 

The cool pressure of a steady hand on his shoulder.  A strained voice struggling to mask the emotions which are seeping out. His name called out in one smooth flow. Blue eyes wavering behind glasses as he promises to explain ( _to come back_ ) . The ghost of a smile on pale, thin lips as he relaxes his tense frame, as Yata promises ~~to come~~ back. 

 

The relief crashing down on him in waves makes him giddy, he would have collapsed had it not been for the steady pressure of a cool hand on his shoulder. 

  

* * *

  

Maybe it's the small smile or the desperation in his voice when he screams _Misaki_ or the promise or everything together that does it. 

Breaks the dam he's been building for years. 

 

* * *

 

When all this mess is seemingly over and Kusanagi-san threatens to kill him if doesn't go home and take rest, he comes to his apartment, slowly closes the door, slides down against it, folds his knees to his chest and breaks. 

 

Silent sobs wreck his body  as tears stream down his face. 

 

_he's back he came back Saruhiko is **back**_

 

He hits the call button for the first time in four years. 

 

He picks up, for the first time in four years. He doesn't say anything, and that tells Misaki that Saruhiko knows who is on the other end. 

 

He sobs into the phone, shaking, not making a sound, and can almost hear a teardrop rolling off and landing on Saruhiko's chest and the heaving of his body despite his steady breath. 

 

 

Of course they will talk some more, but that's for later. 

 

* * *

 

Yata Misaki doesn't cry when Fushimi goes away, he cries when Saruhiko comes back. 

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Nothing else matters really (only you do)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is invincible, can't be conquered from outside. But, what if someone or something inside decides to break open? 
> 
>  
> 
> To Fushimi Saruhiko, it does not matter when people leave (or things burn). He knows, it's meant to be like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fushimi Saruhiko's POV. I tried my best.

 

Infinity is just a concept, Fushimi Saruhiko learns. When glass breaks, you can count the shards. When hearts break, they break like they never existed before. 

 

 Most things, like infinity, exist just in name. 

 

* * *

  

To Fushimi Saruhiko, it does not matter when people leave ( _or things burn_ ). He knows, it's meant to be like this. 

 

He learns to build an impenetrable castle around him, leave before he is left behind ( _or burn things with his own fingers before they break_ ) - if he doesn't have anyone, does it matter if people come and go? 

 

_Doesn't mean it hurts less._

 

 

If you already know the end of the story, why waste time in reading it through?  

 

* * *

 

 In the days when nights spent at internet cafes are becoming more regular, he realizes, the empty mansion and those empty words don't matter anymore. He already belongs with the constant bickering on windy rooftops and the sound of open, honest laughter. 

 

* * *

 

Ah. Yes. What a sick joke, universe. 

 

_I'm so sick._

 

Not that it matters. 

 

* * *

 

 Burn and break. 

 

Burn the mark and see a heartbreak reflected in wide pools of amber. 

 

Build and destroy. 

 

Build your wall higher so that the smoke cannot choke you, and destroy the weak things - before _they_ destroy _you_.

 

Flesh and blood. 

 

The only things that _matter_. 

  

* * *

 

 

And probably... 

 

No, subconscious, shut up. 

 

But, did _he_ not matter - 

 

Shut the _fuck_ up. 

 

* * *

 

And if the new world he's going to create is as lonely and grey as the old one, what's the point?  

 

* * *

  

There's the clock ticking on the wall - mechanical. 

 

There's his heart beating, for no reason at all. _So mechanical._

 

He is no more alive than the clock is, for all that matters.

 

* * *

  

Yes, that's life, wind running through his hair, power surging through the ground, fingers running on knives and hidden scars - and that unadulterated hatred burning in the amber eyes and pure disgust flaming in the auburn hair. 

 

 He feels like an obligate parasite at times, feeding on life from the person who defines life for him. 

  

* * *

  

He notices the forced smiles and faltering steps and strained voice and reserved posture in someone who should wear his heart on his sleeve. The look in his eyes ( _so full of hurt, not hate_ ) pains him. 

 

But what does he fix others with if he can't fix himself? 

 

He doesn't know what is the matter with the dull ache in his chest. 

 

* * *

 

He is tired of hiding, of not mattering to anyone anymore. So, when the blue of the sky meets the green of the jungle, he asks to be chased after. 

 

* * *

  

"Saruhiko,where the hell are you, bastard?"

 

"Misaki !". _I'm lost_. 

  

* * *

 

His castle is threatening to break, but he can't - a broad back, two strong arms, a determined amber gaze is holding him in place. 

 

There are cracks on the walls though, bricks rolling down. 

 

Blood gushes out from the wound on his thigh, but it doesn't matter, as long as he knows someone looks upto him, someone thinks he's worth coming back for. 

 

Not just _someone_. **_Misaki_**. 

 

* * *

 

When the Slates have been  done with and the Lieutenant threatens to sack him if he doesn't take a rest, he goes back to the dormitory, closes the door softly, exhales a shaky breath, and sits down on the unoccupied lower bunk of the double bed. 

 

For the first time in four years. 

 

He opens it, _their_ mailing application for the first time in four years. 

 

When his trembling fingers hit the ' **Send** ' button, it is a blank message. 

 

(The hurricane of words in his brain fight with each other and reduce to an unbearable blankness.) 

 

His phone vibrates almost immediately. 

 

It notifies the reception of a blank message. 

 

_So, he remembers, huh?_

 

 

As he stares listlessly at the seemingly  blank screen, he can almost make out the trail of tears on cheeks, the tremble of fingers as they hit ' **Send** ', a shaky sigh of relief and _a lingering warmth that indicates that  the sender had pressed the phone to his heart._

 

 

All he has seen is people leaving, he hasn't seen them come back for him. 

 

 

 _Heh, dumbass_ , he can almost hear the screen snicker as his world narrows down to the painfully slow trickle of tears down his cheeks, _I never left._  

 

* * *

  

This feeling of the walls breaking into infinite pieces under a steady amber gaze and   _idiotic_ determination - crumbling at his feet - this has to mean something. 

 

* * *

 

Doesn't mean this matters. 

 

Fuck off, subconscious. Listen to your consciousness. 

 

It can if you want it to. 

 

* * *

 

And this, Fushimi decides, is the only thing that mattered from the beginning, the only thing that matters in the end. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogues in the double quotes are taken from K: Return Of Kings Episode 12.


	3. You give me power (I need it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yata Misaki, who has never had any place to belong, has two now - yes, two, because Saruhiko never belonged with Homra. 
> 
> He needs power, but he's been looking in the wrong place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yata Misaki's POV.

* * *

 

Yata Misaki always comes home with cuts and bruises and his mother chides him. 

Yes, the disinfectant stings, but it is _so_ worth it, he thinks, grinning. 

 

When he  stands between a frightened kid and his bullies, when he beats the hell out of jerks who torture a stray cat, when he climbs trees to rescue nestlings from a big, bad crow -  he feels the power that he craves.

 

Black eyes and bloody mouths don't nearly matter as much as the _thank you_ from the kid or the grateful mew of the cat. Or the power he had felt. 

 

 

Power to protect. Power to belong. Power to overcome insecurities. 

 

He wants more power, so that he can build a world where he belongs. 

 

* * *

  

He saves that thin, bespectacled boy from the bullies, and he feels it again. 

 

That boy is downright weird, pretends as if he didn't need to be saved, doesn't even say a _thank you_ , but there's something in his aloof demeanor and gruff offhandedness that makes Yata's chest swell. 

 

* * *

  

Fushimi. 

 

Saruhiko.     

 

 _Saru_. 

 

He alone has the power to call Saru by that name. 

 

* * *

  

He doesn't know what Saruhiko does, but he always feels on top of the world when he is with Saruhiko. There is something about his smiles and knuckle-bumps which makes him feel that he's just won over the world. 

 

"Together, we'll take over the world!"

 

He plans to take this world down and build a new one when he feels insecure at nights. But Saruhiko's plans are so _awesome_ and his voice so _assuring_ , his confidence is so _infectious_ and his eyes so _alive_ \- he feels safe again, and trusts in their power. 

 

* * *

 

Yata realizes that he needs more power when he nearly loses Saruhiko to the fireworks. He needs to protect Saruhiko and their world. 

 

 _Fire_ is the solution, he finds. 

 

* * *

 

Saruhiko burns the mark. 

 

Standing petrified in that alley, there is nothing he can do to stop Saruhiko. He doesn't even have the power to say a word, let alone stop him. 

 

He feels his power bleeding out into the ground until he can't lift a finger or breathe and _of course_ it's something that the other can't see. 

 

* * *

 

And, patrolling down the streets, brandishing his insignia, hearing Totsuka-san sing, lying awake on the lower bunk of the double bed, there is a hollow voice inside his head which keeps ringing.

 

_What is the use of power when the one you want to protect is gone?_

 

_Is your friendship more important to you, or is your power?_

 

He chooses his power, his pack, his pride - because his weakness lies elsewhere. 

 

* * *

 

Pride and all be damned, sometimes he feels like just apologizing for _whatever_ it is when they meet and ask him to come back. 

 

But, he can't. You don't go about telling the enemy your weaknesses. 

 

 _Enemy_? The voice sneers. _How long do you plan-_

 

The voice has to stop, when a flight of knives rush towards him, and that horrible laughter cuts through his skull. 

 

* * *

 

The fire crackles under his feet, sizzles in his fist, loyal as ever, yet he feels so powerless. He kind of knows why, but doesn't acknowledge it. 

 

And how do you take flight if you do not have ground beneath your feet?

 

* * *

 

He saves Saruhiko again from the Greens. 

 

And just the very fact that Saruhiko _lets_ himself be saved by him, makes his chest swell.

 

Saruhiko promises to explain. He promises to listen, because he has been lying to himself for _too long,_ and it's time to shut that stupid voice up for good now. 

 

And, there it is, in the rare smile on pale lips and in the relief swimming in blue eyes - the feeling that he has just conquered the world. 

 

* * *

 

Saruhiko doesn't thank him this time as well, and he is thankful for that. 

 

He has already realized that he wants more than gratitude. 

 

* * *

 

As he watches the moonlight illuminate the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, as he takes in the long, wet lashes fluttering against the pale cheeks, as those quivering lips slowly form his name, as those cold, trembling fingers hold his outstretched palm and close around it... 

 

... he _feels_ it. 

 

Feels the heat of the blood gushing through his veins, and the power surging through every fiber in him. 

 

He feels like he can do everything, be everything he wants. 

 

Now that he has the power _and_ a reason to. 

 

His aura has gone, but that beautiful red engulfs him. On his cheeks, on the tip of his nose, from his ears to his neck -  the red bursts out from his skin. 

 

He slowly lifts his chin up, presses his lips to where they belong and tastes home in the other's mouth. 

 

He feels Fushimi still for a split second, and surge up into the kiss. He feels Fushimi's breath on his cheek, and smile against his skin. He feels Fushimi go limp in the embrace and drop his entire weight on the redhead's small body. 

 

It's the most powerful he has ever felt. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's. 2.AM. And this is the only thing that I can do rn.


	4. Say it like you do (I want to believe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His is a dark little world which knows not about gravity. 
> 
> Nothing stays. 
> 
> Until, one day...
> 
> And, exception does not always prove the rule, he learns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fushimi Saruhiko's POV.

 

                 ................                     

 

They are making origami in the school that day, and the teacher holds up Fushimi Saruhiko's crane -  proud neck and confident wings -  to the class. 

 

 _This is beautiful, Fushimi-kun,_ the teacher says, appreciation evident in his voice, _You've done a wonderful job._

 

. 

 

Niki sways in a cackling fit, and doubles over in mirth. 

 

 _Isn't it more beautiful this way, my little monkey_?, he says; the cane lies at his feet, one of its white wings in his hands. 

 

. 

 

He clenches his fingers, trembling, world blurring through the tears. 

 

. 

 

Fushimi Saruhiko is a quick learner, though. He never needs to be told twice. 

 

Nothing is going to last forever, and the better the thing, the happier the emotions associated with it, the faster will it go away - fall apart - _burn down_ \- like sand grains falling though one's fingers. 

 

Everything. Everyone. 

 

Everytime. 

 

He learns not to fall for these delusions, not to attach himself, not to be involved, not to feel, not to trust, not to hurt, not to let out. 

 

Not to believe. Never to hope. 

 

. 

 

 _Fire_ , says Niki, _is beautiful_. The tip of the cigarette burns red, the room filled with cigarette smoke that makes Fushimi choke. 

 

_Ah yes._

 

Especially if the anthill is what his son has been working on for the past six months. 

 

. 

 

But, wait, there's this boy, who goes against every definition that Fushimi has ever constructed, who goes against all the laws in Fushimi's small, dark world, who laughs like the summer breeze and warms like the winter sun. 

 

He says that no one can live without friends. 

 

 _Idiot_. 

 

He believes in heroes, and he saves people he doesn't even know. 

 

_Idiot._

 

_I can't be saved._

 

. 

 

And doesn't exception only prove the rule? 

 

. 

 

Everyone will leave. Everything will break. Everytime will be the same. 

 

Everything he touches will be destroyed and it will all be his fault, because there is no such thing as _destiny_. 

 

. 

 

The boy tells Fushimi not to call him by his first name. _It's not manly,_ he says. 

 

Well, the radiant blush on his cheeks is not manly either. 

 

The name sounds like a young stream rushing out from the core of a mountain, alive and... 

 

 _Misaki_. 

 

The name sounds like the heartbeats in Fushimi's throat. 

 

. 

 

And there's this lingering voice at the back of his mind, always saying, singing, snickering – how none of this is meant for him, how none of this going to last, how he should not let himself fall prey to such delusions. 

 

. 

 

And there aren't even tears anymore, nothing to blur the world. It's naked, mindless, gray. _Cold_. 

 

Just clenched fists and blood seeping through fingernails. 

 

. 

 

 _You do get taken care of when you're sick, right_? Misaki asks. 

 

He can't say anything. He only hopes Misaki can not see the distorted twist of his lips. 

 

. 

 

 _I'll come whenever you call for me,_ Misaki says. 

 

So he repeats the name a million times inside his head when he lies awake in bed at night, and he feels it overpowering the maddening laughter that comes from downstairs. 

 

And the strange thing is, Misaki _does_ come.

 

. 

 

And there, just like that, Fushimi allows himself to breathe a little easier, to live a little more. Just because Misaki says so. 

 

. 

 

_Together, we'll take over the world!_

 

Misaki's auburn hair looks like the flickering tongues of fire when the wind blows.

 

And how can he doubt anything that Misaki says? 

 

. 

 

Knuckle bumps. Pizzas. Kotatsus . Double bunk beds. 

 

Home. 

 

( _You're amazing_!) 

 

. 

 

Mailing apps. Gaming centers. Nightmares. Fireworks. 

 

<Jungle>. 

 

( _Saruhiko! Are you okay_?) 

 

. 

 

Warmth. Heat. Fire. Smoke. 

 

Homra. 

 

( _He's amazing_!) 

 

. 

 

 _Isn't it nice that we have our marks in the same place_? Misaki exclaims and Fushimi wants to tear Misaki's eyes away from the mark, and tear the mark away from his chest. 

 

. 

 

He burns the mark with his own fire, and sees the fire in Misaki's eyes flicker to a dead end, before it flares up again and consumes him. 

 

Better to leave first than be left forgotten. 

 

Nothing lasts forever. Better destroy it now than wait till the end. 

 

. 

 

 _Traitor_. Traitor! TRAITOR! 

 

 _I'll_ **kill** _you_ , Misaki swears, and once again Misaki's eyes are on him. 

 

. 

 

Oh, the sweet pain! Ah, the sick pleasure! 

 

. 

 

 _Sick_. So cold. 

 

. 

 

Traitor. _Yes, I am._

 

. 

He has Misaki pinned to the wall, damp with moisture and sharp from the plaster that is peeling off. 

 

Misaki is seething, but Misaki is not struggling anymore. 

 

Their lips can touch any moment now, and his vile sneer will be leaving an imprint on Misaki's slightly parted, rather inviting ones. 

 

That's the joke, though – they _can_ , but never _do_. 

 

He wakes up, throat raw and body bathed in sweat, and he wonders why it is not blood instead. 

 

. 

 

There's acid in his heart and there's venom in his mouth, there are knives up his sleeves and there are daggers in his words... 

 

...and there's a chill in his bones, there's a little child inside crying helpless tears over the burnt remains of what used to be an anthill. 

 

He pushes everything deep down, until everything is lost to the darkness. 

 

_Like himself._

 

. 

 

He does everything he knows to kill the stupid, stupid rays of hope which shimmer in those amber eyes, but they _keep_ coming back, and the other keeps coming back to him - when that's not how it should be, people should just leave and not come back, never come back to him. 

 

He knows none of this is working. The rules are breaking and he hates when he's not in control. 

 

Like his fucking heart that goes crazy everytime they meet. 

 

And, deep down, hidden behind his manic eyes, his unhinged laughter, his mocking drawl – he's afraid. _Terribly so._

 

. 

 

_You're used to being a traitor._

 

The voice of the Blue King is calm and calculated, and he knows the story behind the statement. 

 

 _Still_. 

 

He has taught himself not to feel, but sometimes the void of numbness is too overbearing to carry. 

 

. 

 

His back collides with the wall, his knees buckle and he falls to the ground on all fours, blood gushing out from the wound in his thigh.

 

Like a child searching for the broken pieces of a Rubik's cube on the floor. 

 

. 

 

_You're not a traitor!_

 

Misaki's voice is swimming with faith, with belief, with relief, like Misaki is not only saying that to the other, but also to himself. 

 

 _Don't._ Don't. 

 

_You don't get to do that. Not now._

 

_I can't be saved._

 

He can't find the strength in him to bite back viciously; he feels too weak to break into a run like he should and run till his legs give in and his lungs burn to ashes because _this_ , this is going to break again, and this time there won't even be any pain to sustain himself. 

 

But he can't. And it's not entirely due to the wound. 

 

It's because Misaki came back for him, Misaki helped him up when he fell, Misaki looked up to him. Because Misaki _cared_. 

 

. 

 

The convulsing relief hurts more than the stab wound high up his leg, and he welcomes it. 

 

. 

 

 _Move in with me again,_ Misaki whispers, voice faltering at the edges. 

 

He stands stiff at the gate of the small apartment which barely fits Misaki's things – frenzied heartbeat and burning lungs. 

 

Misaki's apartment is small, indeed, but Misaki's heart is astonishingly large, and that is the place he has wanted to live in for so long, and Misaki says... 

 

... _Come back home._

 

He realizes, Misaki has been saying that for a long time, and this is the first time he hears. 

 

. 

 

He stops an agonising distance short from Misaki's lips. 

 

The sun sets in the west, setting the horizon ablaze, and Misaki's eyes burn with the same fire, and he shudders as he thinks of the imprint his vile lips will be leaving on Misaki's parted, inviting ones. 

 

_Everything he touches will be destroyed._

 

He cannot click his tongue when he realizes how cold his hand is in Misaki's, and how it trembles. 

 

Misaki whispers, _it's okay_ , voice like the soft downs of a pigeon's breast, and he cannot hold back the rushing desire anymore, and finally closes that gap.

 

Misaki's lips are soft against his dry ones, Misaki's breath warm against his cheek, his hands slowly growing warm in Misaki's. 

 

There's no blood like he dreamed there would be, there's no struggle for power, no bitter taste of vengeance nor the salt of tears. 

 

. 

 

Misaki's cheeks are glowing faintly, and he is smiling like that again.

 

Misaki is here in front of him, completely open, Misaki's whole heart laid out for him to read, to claim. 

 

. 

 

Broken things are not the only ones that are beautiful, after all. 

 

. 

 

_Everything he touches..._

 

. 

 

He touches Misaki's cheeks, they're warm, and Misaki is still here. Misaki is still smiling. 

 

. 

 

It is not just a kiss, it's the holiest of salvations. 

 

. 

 

And Misaki says that it is love.

 

Fushimi believes.

 

...................             

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was written for my beloved sister, for she wanted to read some angst. Sis, I tried.


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